


Art Appreciation

by B_does_the_write_thing



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 17:47:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4488897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_does_the_write_thing/pseuds/B_does_the_write_thing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On opening night of the new Storybrooke Art Gallery, Robert Gold finds himself rather taken with a piece of art. When a beautiful woman catches him memorized, he quickly attempts to save face by dismissing it, not realizing the women before him is the artist of the piece, Belle French.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Art Appreciation

**Author's Note:**

> As the final prompt from my 100 Follower Prompt-a-Thon, this was supposed to be angst... 
> 
> Thanks everyone for following my blog and for everyone who has ever read, liked, reblogged, commented, or sent me a message- This one’s for you.

Gazing at the painting before him, Robert Gold spared a moment to consider whether or not he was being punished. 

Beside him, his son Neal was talking animatedly to the gallery owner, seemingly oblivious to his father’s discomfort. As the two delved deeper into the artistic motivations behind the pure white canvas, Robert glanced around to see if there was an escape route available to him. 

As a major property holder of Storybrooke, Robert had plenty of businesses on his leasing list. Massage parlors, nail salons, boutiques and cafes aplenty, even the odd music store or hobby shop, but the Storybrooke Art Gallery was new even for him. 

It was Neal’s pet project. After his son had moved back from cesspool that was New York City, Robert had given him some of the more marketable properties in hopes of letting the young man build up his own empire.

Instead, Neal had sold all the property and used the money to establish a cultural center. Storybrooke now had a concert hall, theatre and, of course, the new gallery. 

Which had in turn brought Emma Swann to Storybrooke. The Boston art critic had leapt at the opportunity to open her own gallery and she brought with her a certain way of doing things. Neal was instantly taken, Robert, not so much. 

She had insisted on a laundry list of things. Robert had of course demanded a few things in return, including a museum wing of the exhibit hall where certain pieces could be on display for the town. It had been finished with the rest of the gallery, but it currently stood empty. They still lacked a curator. Job interviews so far had been lackluster at best and Robert dreaded they would ever find the proper person to fill the role. 

All of this brought him here, to the hell he currently found himself in on a Saturday night when he would much rather be at home. 

Spotting an opening in the throng, Gold limped forward without alerting his son to his departure. The younger man, who went by his mother’s maiden name, Cassidy, did not seem to notice. Neal had barely spent a minute away from Ms. Swann that evening, leaving his fathers at odds. It was not that Robert disliked Ms. Swann, he just found her…irksome.

Making it to the relative safety of the small back room of the exhibit, Robert breathed a sigh of relief, even as he snagged a glass of champagne from the roving wait staff. The lights were dim enough in here that most patrons were passing it by, assuming it was one of the galleries not yet complete for the grand opening celebration. This suited him wonderfully. As he lowered his drink, he spared a look around. 

The entire room was one large installation piece. Dangling from the ceiling in invisible wires, infinite beads of silver, gray and onyx were glistening at various heights. The floor itself was painted in rippling waves, and he found himself growing relaxed the longer he gazed at it.

Frustrated and fatigued, his leg growing increasingly uncomfortable despite the champagne’s influence, Robert quickly finished his fourth glass of champagne before turning to catch the next waiter who passed by. His eye caught a nearby plaque mounted on the wall. It read: Silent Tears Hidden in the Rain. Artist: B. French. 2015.

He frowned, turning back to the piece with this new information in place. The way the light shone down on the work made it seem as if it was moving, the pellets falling down to earth in a continuous sheet of rain. He could almost hear the sound of rain falling, watching the beads spin in the air conditioning. He felt, if he just reached out and touched it, he would feel precipitation on his palm. 

It was soothing. 

“What do you think?”

Jolting out his transfixed state, Robert found himself no longer alone in the small room. As the din from the main gallery swelled with laughter, he realized some time had passed. A diminutive woman stood beside him, gazing in rapt interest, not at the artwork before them but up at him. 

The dim light made her eyes shine like deep crystalline pools. Unnerved, Robert wrenched his gaze away. Instead, he found himself staring at her chest, a cotton white peter pan collared button up strained over her small but perky breasts.

His face flooded with color as he spun back to face the installation. The woman didn’t seem bothered by his ungainliness. 

“Of what?” He asked, careful to keep his eyes averted. 

Amusement colored her tone as she replied,” The art. What did you think I meant?’

The teasing tone of her voice could almost be considered flirting, he thought in a panic. He glanced back over at her, noticing she was still smiling up at him, seemingly unafraid. So, a newcomer to Storybrooke, he figured. Someone who didn’t know who Robert Gold was. 

After a moment of silence, he cleared his throat to tell her how soothing he found it, how he felt as he was in a rainstorm, letting the rain cleanse him of whatever burdens he carried.

None of that came to his tongue. 

Casting about for something to say, his eyes fell back upon the plaque just over her shoulder. The words came from him in rapid fire, “Pretentious title. Lacks sophistication or subtlety.” 

“Oh?”

Her response was low, but the tone was unmistakable. The question at the end, surely it meant for him to continue. The soft syllable echoed in his ears. His heart began to thud in an odd rhythm. He warmed to his theme, trying to focus on the art in front of him instead of the way her perfume smelled. 

“Seems to be a mindlessness about the work. Makes you wonder if the artist even knows what he’s doing,” he added. When the woman didn’t respond, he looked down to find her frowning, deep in thought. 

“I doubt this artist even knows true grief,” he concluded. “This is too clean. Too precise to have ever truly felt misery. What do you think?”

He was rather proud of himself. That had sounded rather good for someone with no art background-

“Miss French!”

Freezing as the entirety of his blood drained from his face, Robert turned stiffly to find Ms. Swann entering the small room, Neal trailing behind her. 

“There you are! I see you’ve met our main backer, Mr. Robert Gold.”

Blue eyes flashed up at him, and he was sure he saw resentment swimming amidst the brimming pool of tears that seemed to have materialize. In his desperate attempt to impress her, he insulted her work. 

“He was just sharing with me his feelings on my latest piece,” Miss French said primly. She seemed to forget he was beside her as she then excused herself to escape back into the main gallery. 

Neal sidled up to him, looking at the piece as Robert stood like a state watching the brunette disappear into the crowd. Emma was watching him with a concerned look on her face, trying to decipher what had transpired. 

“Pretty impressive work,” Neal whistled. “We were extremely lucky to get one of Belle French’s piece for the opening. She just announced she’s retiring, going to focus on curating for a bit. What did you think, Papa?”

Gold sighed heavily as the pain his leg flared and intensified. “I found myself quite overwhelmed,” he replied honestly before he limped past the frowning Emma and back into the throng. 

“I told you this was a bad idea,” Robert heard Emma comment as he made his back into the soft mood lighting of the gallery hall. 

“I thought he might enjoy it,” Neal was replying defensively. “He did pay for half of this.” 

Gold ignored them, instead he found himself scanning the crowds. Many familiar faces blurred together as he moved slowly about the room. Some tried to stop and talk to him, Selena Mills making a beeline towards him until her sister Regina, the town’s old mayor, mercifully dragged her back. 

Growing increasingly despondent as the champagne’s influence began to wane, Gold began to resign himself that he would never find his intended target when he heard his name.

“....Mr. Gold can take some…getting used to is all.”

Twisting, he found Sheriff David Nolan and his wife Mary Margret, recently named the new Mayor, holding court in the visiting room. They were surrounded by the usual sycophants, but among them, stood out the very face for which he had been searching. 

“Miss French,” he called out as he reached the circle. Both Nolans turned to him in surprise even as the flashing blue eyes of Miss French met his in defiant suspicion. 

“Mr. Gold, I assume?” She said tonelessly. He nodded, gripping his cane tight enough to whiten his knuckles. She was even more beautiful out in the light, he thought dully. In the minutes since they had met, he had seen her happy, sad and now angry. And for the life of him, he couldn’t choose which one made her eyes more brilliant. 

“Might I have a word with you?” He asked, watching as the Mayor put her hand protectively on Miss French’s shoulders. “In private?”

Mary Margret opened her mouth, but he was pleasantly surprised when the Sheriff cut his wife off with a pleasant aside to the wounded artist. “Belle, perhaps Gold could show you the private gallery? “ 

Belle. Her name was Belle. He found it ringing in his ears, the echoes of it as beautiful as the sound of her voice. 

“I own it,” he found himself stating foolishly. Mary Margret raised an eyebrow over Belle’s shoulder and he found himself clearing his throat as he tried to retain some iota of dignity. “I mean to say, I’m the main financial backer of the Gold Gallery Hall, and I wanted to discuss my earlier thoughts on your work. I believe I may have been,” he paused here, fighting to get the words out even as Belle stared him down. The others seemed mystified, all apart from David who seemed to be thoroughly enjoying this development. “Rash in my initial critique.”

“Beastly, more like,” Belle returned but she had a smile tugging the corners of her lips. With a nod, she turned to Mary Margret. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Take your time,” the Mayor said, watching him with a warning clear in her narrowed gaze. “We’ll be waiting.”

Belle brushed past him, the click of her stilettos on the tiled floor echoing in his ears. He hurried after her, ignoring the few people who called out after him as he hurried to keep up with her. 

Abruptly, she came to a stop, turning and peering up at him. He caught a moment of hesitation in her eyes before she blurted, “I don’t know where I’m going.”

“Ah,” he replied succinctly. 

She arched a brow at him, mirroring his facial expression. “Would you lead the way?”

He realized, as they turned the corner to the still closed smaller exhibit space, that she probably could have very easily found the way. He turned, finding her staring in some interest at his bad leg. She didn’t hide her gaze, simply looked back up at him until he turned back around and let them into the space.

Warm toned lights flickered on in the wood paneled room. The room was a deep maroon, the beautifully designed wooden floor sparkling from its recent polish and all the walls forlorn and empty of any artwork. 

“Wow,” Belle breathed, head rising up as she looked around in wonder. “You must be a classicist.”

“Guilty,” he agreed. She threw him a warm smile, her earlier ire seemingly having melted as she walked around to inspect the paneling. He let himself sit on one of the curved benches that were situated in the center of the room. He enjoyed sitting in art galleries so he had made sure benches were included in at least this area. 

“It feels more like a museum,” Belle told him as she perched lightly next to him. Her shoulder rubbed his, the delicate white shirtsleeve rustling against his black suit. 

“That’s the intention. Storybrooke does not have a museum, and since Maine is rather lacking on one in general...”

“You decided to put one in the art gallery for the town to enjoy,” Belle finished for him. She was smiling now, tilting her head up at him. He found himself sharing a tight-lipped smile with her, watching as hers grew until she was giggling. “How clever.”

“Merely advantageous to me,” he confided. “My son hated it here growing up. He moved to New York City when he was eighteen. I spent years collecting properties, flipping real estate and working on the sidelines to turn Storybrooke back into a prosperous town.”

Belle clapped her hand over his where it rested on his cane. Careful, his mind warned him as he felt his skin tighten. “You mean, you did all of that for your son?”

“Selfishly, to make him want to come home,” he said lowly, glancing down at his shoes. He could see her silhouette in them, and when he looked back up, he realized she had leaned in closer. 

“That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard,” she told him, her voice trembling and pitched low. His eyes widened at the dawning realization that her lips were parted invitingly, her lashes lowered seductively and her thumb was caressing his knuckles.

“Miss French?” He gulped, leaning backwards slightly. “I wanted to apologize for my earlier behavior-“

“You mean your scathing critique of my work?” She asked, sitting up a little straighter. He noticed she did not remove her hand although it stilled its heavenly ministrations. “Your dismissal of my crippling depression at my mother’s death?”

He nodded miserably. The champagne lay like a brick in his stomach and he wondered briefly if the scotch supply in his office would be enough to warm him tonight. 

“I was trying to impress you,” he finally confessed. His hair slid into his face, shielding it from her intense stare. “You caught me unawares, this Minerva suddenly before me, having caught me caught up in the wondrous beauty of an emotion that I had not let myself feel in years-“

Fingers tickled his cheek as Belle pushed his hair back behind his ear, his gaze snuck to her face finding her enraptured as her fingers toyed gently with the strands of his silver and brown mane. 

“Miss French?”

“Belle,” she said lowly. “Did you really like it? Or are you just telling me this so I won’t hate you?”

His mouth went dry. Part of his brain screamed at him to tell her what she wanted to hear, he knew the words, he knew how to twist people to dance to his tune but instead…

“I was swept away by the artwork and then by your eyes. I feel I am still lost at sea and I feel at any moment, I will go under and drown. But if you would be as kind as to forgive me for my earlier attempt to impress you with my feigned indifference, I would be eternally grateful-“

He didn’t get to finish. She was practically in his lap now, the warmth of her spreading through him. Unlike scotch, her warmth only increased, flickering and starting a million other fires inside of him. 

Wrapping his arms around her, he let his cane clatter to the floor. His right hand reached up into her mass of chestnut curls, feeling the softness as the smell of lilacs burst into the air. 

Confused but not unpleased with the current situation, he kept the kiss as chaste as he could but Belle seemed to have other intentions. Her lips nibbled and teased his until he finally relented. Opening her mouth with his own forceful nudging, she issued a small guttural moan that made his hair and certain other unmentionables stand on end. 

As he tasted the chocolate and strawberry that still lingered on his tongue, he felt her hands clawing fitfully at his jacket. Only when she pulled away to bury her head in his neck, sighing happily as his hands tightened on her hips did he come to himself.

“Belle!” 

“Hmm?” She murmured, taking a sharp bite at his pulse point where his suit collar ended. 

His fingers seemed to find this encouragement to slip under the short skirt she was wearing, her thin hose ending inexplicably at her thighs-

“Are you wearing garters?” He moaned, trying to remember what he had been about to say. She didn’t respond, only tug her fingers tighter at where she was trying to undo his tie. 

He stilled her hands and she looked down at him with a shy grin that still managed to be puckish. Pushing her hair out of her eyes, she said, “I actually have a confession to make.”

Gold’s blood supply was focused largely in his lap right now but he made the conscious effort to pay attention to her, nodding solemnly even as her fingers tightened on her hips. 

“I was waiting for a chance to talk to you all night,” she said in a rush. “I had seen you talking with a few of the artist but I didn’t know you were Gold, you know, the Gold. So, when I saw you standing in my exhibit area, I followed you.” She paused, leaning down to push her forehead against his. “I was going to ask you out.”

His brain for some reason was not making any logical sense at the moment. His hands were full of her curves, his lap was warm and flush against her bottom and her lips were inches from his own. And she was telling him she had pursued him?

“Until I opened my mouth.”

She shrugged, her breath sweet against his cheek. “I was upset,” she told him matter of factly. “But us artists are known for our emotional outbursts.”

Marveling at the softness of her skin, Robert found himself leaning forward, capturing her lips in a sweet, lingering kiss. “Your work captivated me,” he assured her. “And I would have been able to tell you that if your eyes hadn’t bewitched me.”

She batted his shoulder but he caught it with his hand, raising it to his mouth and pressing a searing kiss to her open palm. Her breath grew ragged as she dipped back down to capture his mouth with her own. 

“Papa?”

Odd, Gold though to himself as he tilted her head back up to kiss her mercilessly. That had sounded like-

“Gold!”

His eyes fluttered open to find Neal and Emma standing traumatized in the open doorway to the hall, David and Mary Margret standing just behind them. 

“Ah, yes,” he said, voice huskier than he had intended. “We were just discussing Miss French’s future at the gallery.”

“Were you?” Emma said, her voice heavy with innuendo. Well, he supposed they hadn’t made it that far, but he had every intention of begging her to take the role of art curator for this hall. And then perhaps, depending on how things went, he would build her an entire museum. 

“Yes,” Belle said happily as she twisted in his lap to face the interlopers. “But we were also in the middle of getting to know each other. So, if you wouldn’t mind?”

The odd rush of affection and primal lust that flooded his bloodstream at her daring was unfamiliar and a bit alarming. Still, as the quartet quickly departed and she twisted back to look down at him, her face glowing as she vibrated enticingly in his arms, he had an odd feeling it was love.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Again, no beta so if you see an error, feel free to let me know.


End file.
